Tuesday, September 9, 2008
p.s. Hey. Yeah, I spent all of yesterday finishing my part in the radio play that Catherine Robbe-Grillet and I are writing, so there's not much re. me to report today. Oh, 'Work for GV', the soundtrack album of Gisele's and my theater work that I've noted and promo-ed in the blog's upper right hand corner got the spotlight review in the new issue of The Wire, and it's a rave, so we're very happy about that. I was a little relieved to wake up and notice that the media seems to be all over Sarah Palin's religious fanaticism and the anti-semitism of her church this morning, so here's hoping that blows up gigantically and fatally. If there's anything else to tell you, I can't remember it at the moment. ** Roger P., A holiday at a remote village in China sounds awfully nice. Like a spa without the spa, which was meant to sound good although it probably doesn't sound as good as I intended. Chill time, I mean. I think the second version you sent me is A-okay. I'll write you about all that today. And thank you a ton, man. Oh, I like the dancing drawer. Very subtle. Though I admit I like the freezer packed full of squirming not-dead dead bodies even more. It's kind of sort of subtle too. ** Alien, Hi, nice to meet you. I had a quick read of the Rosie story on your blog, and I like it a lot. Excellent work. I'll try to keep my eye on its progress. Take care, and come back anytime, of course. ** Erik, Yeah, maybe the weird Ibiza controversy is where I heard of Hendriks, but I think I knew of him before for some reason. Of course I really like that new thing on your blog. It's cool. I'll do the escorts and slaves, and you can do the romantic types. It's perfect. ** Akkeri, I managed to find some Elliott mp3s yesterday, and I must say I liked them a lot. Maybe I'll go for 'Song in the Air' first since the term 'stoner rock opus' seems to hit the spot. I just linked over to have a glance the documentary clips, but Youtube's doing one of its 'maintenance' numbers, so I'll journey over there later. Yeah, definitely get whatever that internal thing is cut out by all means. I have this spot/lump thing on the top of my head that I need get removed for the same reason, and which I've been procrastinating about. Don't be like me. I think the only US gig of our theater work at the moment is the Seattle shows in early November. NYC in January is a maybe, and LA is a maybe for sometime in 2009. You'll just have to come to Europe, which you should. It's nice here too. ** DavidC., I wonder if this Lipsynch thing will make it over to Paris. I guess I can go check for myself. How is Dominic enjoying the new work situation? Any luck on selling your place? ** Stan_cz, Well, I hope you end up being allergic to something relatively unnecessary and not your clothes, for instance, 'cos that sucks. I'm not having a ton of luck distracting myself from the election, but I have work to do, so I have to try. Anyway, with signs that Palin is being called on her fanaticism, there's some hope this morning, but the Obama people really have to push now. It's a very dangerous moment. ** Mat, Greetings, maestro! I hope you're good busy. Busy with what, pray tell? Yeah, can you believe this Republican shit? Christ almighty. Man, it's so very good to see you. Any time you're free and feel like it, be here, okay? Lots of love and thoughts of you from me always in any case. ** Antonio, I can't believe you're Facebook friends with Ross Bleckner. I don't know why, but that just blows my mind. I figured you'd know which Neo-Goth was the coke gobbler from hell. I thought everybody knew. I thought it was all over the art scene radar. The Moby Dick thing was kind of a clue, yeah. You're warm. Yeah, that pig's blog just had this Celine thing going on that felt kind of aesthetic, but it could be Outsider Art too. Henry Bowers, hm, I can see it but I can't feel it. I think I'm not as in the mood for the pre-Misfits quiff thing as you are. Maybe I'll photoshop a hair-sprayed windswept emo coif on his head and have another look. But in theory, yeah, I get the godliness. You're gonna take pictures or video or holograms or something of your party, right? Would that be too square? Am I overly deprioritizing the ephemeral to even ask that? A pet rat, hm. I had a whole family of rats as a pet when I lived in Amsterdam. I think I told you that I accidentally scalded them to death. Maybe that's the answer to your question about the worst thing I've ever done to a friend. Yeah, I think that qualifies. Really, about Flash Art? I don't know. To me that's the worst art magazine in the world, but I think maybe I know too much about it. To me it's like the Fox News Channel of art magazines. But I don't know. ** David Ehrenstein, Congrats on the Artforum gig. That makes me really happy. Sholis is a good guy. ** Joshposh, Hey, hero! It's great of you to stop by. Thanks for mentioning my Duvert post on that heaven on earth that we mortals call Milkboys. Oh, you can use the Self-Portrait Day idea too. We can do a big double blog SPD. No, I didn't know curiousexpeditions.org. But I just looked at it, and it's pretty cool, so thanks a lot. I'll probably be stealing stuff from there for here before I know it. You have a seriously lovely day yourself, Josh. ** Jose, The main difference is just context. If you put one of those props yesterday in the rarified white space of a gallery, it'd put Damien Hirst out of business. Hm, not a bad idea, come to think of it. Yeah, I totally dream of having a ton of money and collecting those kinds of props and spooky houses and etc. and creating a perfect world somewhere. Writing that sentence gave me chills. I'm really glad you liked the Duvert and felt a kinship, and I hope the first day of school reeked with promise. ** Scunnard, Hey, man! Where you been? What've you been up to? If memory serves, things were a bit on edge last time you were here. You were thinking of relocating or something, no? Anyway, hi. Gosh, that dream about Yury and me was terrifying. It was positively Palin-esque. And a little Lynchian, no? So, yeah, you doing okay? What's going on? ** Pisycaca, Halloween is popular in Spain? I didn't know that. That's exciting. The French refuse to embrace Halloween, and it's so sad because the French could do a hell of a Halloween if they wanted to. I mean, a Marquis de Sade Spooky House. Imagine it. I can easily. Well, when Yury and I finally get back to LA, you'll have to come visit us at Halloween time, okay? What do you say? ** Marc, Northern France is totally mysterious even to the French. They never go there. They make movies about how weird they imagine it must be. And it looks like you'll be right on the border of Belgium, which is just a strange country all the way around. But that might be a French perspective. That's really depressing about your mom. My mom voted Republican too, although my siblings and I got her to abstain in the last election. This stuff scares me shitless. Voice messages? Oh, gosh, I'm going to embarrass myself when I reveal that I don't know how to listen to voice messages on my phone. I know it's easy, but I just can't figure it out. I guess there must be hundreds of them out in the ether somewhere waiting to be listened to So if you left me a voice message, I never knew it existed or heard it. But I was definitely not pissed or anything. Goodness gracious, no. Next time send me a text message. I did manage to figure out how to read them by some miracle. When are you heading over? ** Chilly Jay Chill, Surely, 'Luna's' flopdom had something to do with Bertolucci's distancing himself. Although my friend said it seemed like more than that. My friend said it was like pulling teeth to get him to talk about the film at all. And since it marked the end of the disturbing and, well, great era of his work, clearly there was something else behind his turning on the film. I honestly don't think Bertolucci has made a really good film since. I understand what you mean about 'The Sheltering Sky', but generally I think it's pretty terrible, and I don't buy the thinking that 'The Dreamers' was a come back at all. No, I mean, his really good films are the early ones: 'Conformist', 'Spiders Stratagem', '1900', 'Last Tango', 'Luna', ... After that, it gets into stylish relative hackdom to me. ** Steevee, Well, you should probably see a doctor about the urination thing just to be safe. I've had that issue in the past, but it wasn't anything, just a muscle twinge or something. Hey, and very cool about the Artforum gig. The blog gang's world take over is in full swing. ** JoeM, I guess with 'experimental', it's a matter of degree with people who insist of tagging things. I always get that tag, but, at the same time, my work isn't nearly as experimental as the really disjunctive, difficult, content- backpedalling fiction that I tend to read and love most. When I see the tag experimental, I'm immediately interested, but for most people it's like you said: a warning sign that something need not be read and would not be a pleasure when read. It's dumb and dismissive. I'm not sure what it's like at the moment, but it used to be that the 'gay' sections of the big corporate bookstores in the US were basically little erotica sections with a book or two of actual fiction sprinkled in. It was the bookstores' low rent district. ** Laurabeth, I'm so sorry to hear that about Zach. Yeah, of course I remember him. That's so sad. Heroin is a beast, an evil entity in my opinion, and it fucks up so many things. And it pulls you in very quickly, and it's probably beyond his understanding or sense of self at this point. I really hope he gets through this bad phase okay and quickly. That's very, very sad to hear. Ugh. Well, hang in there. Otherwise, you have a spring in your voice that tells me school is looking pretty good for you this year. Oh, on the CD question. Okay, I don't know for absolutely sure, but I'm pretty absolutely sure that the 20 euro price includes the shipping cost. Check and see, but I think that's the deal. ** Jesse Hudson, Actually, I think you're better at coercion in your writing that you may think. Maybe it's partly instinctual. Your language hides and reveals things in a very sophisticated way. And you juxtapose images in a way that disorients, and disorientation is the great weapon of writing that seeks to make readers into unwitting spies. Your writing makes language almost like an alluring aroma, and that's a real gift. And, yeah, humor is a great tool, as you know. Anyway, just some writerly respect there from me to you. 'Rent Boy' is terrific, and terrific in the way you said, yeah, I agree with you. Gary's very good at that. Exactly, re what you said about the virtues of writing versus with film. Writing is much more invasive and drug-like. Film can suggest very effectively but writing actually infects, you know? A great novel or story or poem is an infection, and it's an infection that can't ever be fully cured. You can forget things you've seen, but you never fully escape things you've imagined. The images that writing creates are made of the very material of your life and your experience. You're filling in every detail yourself. The writer's imagination and the reader's imagination have an incredibly intimate and fair and balanced relationship. Without the reader's collaboration, the book is just a rectangle of paper. Not to overly push the idea that writing's like a drug, but I tend to think of it that way. It gives you the opportunity and information to create a new experience for yourself, and a book either manages to invade you and work or it doesn't. I don't know. I'm rambling a bit. Talking with you is very inspiring, Jesse. Interesting you mention 'Blair Witch Project'. That's the only movie that's actually scared the shit out of me in as long as I can remember. Mostly with horror movies, I watch them thinking, Oh, that's a cool idea, or, That's something I've never seen before, but 'BWP' really scared me. I saw it with a bunch of friends, and I remember afterwards we were all freaked out and jabbering at light speed to each other about it for hours and hours. Anyway, your thoughts on how that film and the other films work is very, very interesting. I'm definitely going to pick up 'The Room' and read it again. You've totally sold me. And Selby's very respected in France, so it shouldn't be hard. Good torture, and, wow, that honey torture. I could talk about torture techniques for hours, ha ha, as I did a ton of research when I was working on 'Frisk', but I'd better head off into the rest of the p.s. now As always, a huge pleasure to compare notes with you, Jesse. Take care until tomorrow. ** Heliotrope05, Jesus, Mark. What the fuck?! Oh man, I'm so sorry, I don't know what to say. The world can be seriously horrid. I hope your nephew heals up better than he fears. They can do incredible things now to fix and hide. But still, in any case, yeah, I'm just so sorry you all have to go through that kind of viciousness. Love to you. ** Bernard, You know, I haven't seen a single thing about this harassment and arrests of protesters and press at the RNC on the news here or online, which is shocking and not shocking of course. What the hell is going on in the US these days? I can't tell you how absolutely bewildering it seems and feels from over here. ** SYpHA_69, I'd totally love to have a post by you about MZR. That's a perfect idea. Yeah, absolutely, no question. It'll be both fascinating in itself, and, if it helps get the word out, then it'd be the blog's honor. Thanks a lot, man. ** JW Veldhoen, You know, that's a very interesting idea about you doing more with your face and your body. You have a very interesting presence, and the form your presence and physicality projects has quite an interesting and even quite mysterious effect that I can't quite pinpoint. That's not a very clear statement, but ... I don't know. It's just an interesting thing, and it's striking to me that you've thought about working with that. I noted it from the first time we met. Dude, you don't have send me anything, that's really kind. If you insist anyway, ha ha, yeah, 6 rue de Normandie, 75003 Paris is good until early December. Thanks, JW. ** Oliver, Hey. Oh, the oral biography as fiction idea is freeware. Anyway, I haven't sorted it yet, so maybe you can help me if you have. Norway: nice. Never been there, but the people I've met or befriended here on the blog from there are great. Just a vacation, then? I don't know the name of the thing about the uncontrollable muscles around one's mouth. Is there a condition like that? It's not an elaborate acting out of nerves? If so, they say hypnosis helps that kind of thing. If not, yeah, I don't know. Is it a real problem you're worried about? ** Lord_s, I was wondering when I was looking at that site what those posters would look like on a wall. It seems like a brave move, and that's good. Bad pro wrestling, yum. I keep forgetting that there's some cable channel way up in the 400s or something that shows such things here. When I first got this crazy cable TV thing, I was always searching in the high hundreds, but now I seem to have settled into the 200 and under neighborhood, which is not good. Excellent about the writing/typing. Do you really type with one finger? I do. I never learned how to type properly. People always gawk at me when I type. I'm really fast. Thanks for your kind thoughts about the visa. We seriously need them. It's going to be incredibly difficult for absolutely no logical reason whatsoever, and that drives me fucking crazy. ** Shai, What'cha going to do about all that beauty, eh? Oh, you're gonna have a three way with it, are you? Well, needless to say, that sounds like a nice idea. Great you got to see a Sue De Beer. Yeah, she's amazing, right? You'll have to meet her sometime. She's an awesome person. Maybe if the 'Jerk' in NYC thing works out and if you head out for that. Agreed about Halloween, but, being a vegetarian, it'll have to be with veggie-pig livers which, sadly, aren't quite as scary. In the post- apocalypse future? Portland does sound like a green light. But France can be like a giant Portland wearing a beret if you squint, so it might be a good back up plan. ** Postitbreakup, Dude, you're fucking top of line, man. That's what you don't seem to understand. But being happy with someone isn't easy in any case. And it sneaks up on you from the weirdest places, especially when one is as smart and original as you. Maybe you should write more. I know my romantic life got a whole lot easier after I published books. It takes some of the effort and meet and greet part out of it. But you know me, and you're very familiar with my starry eyed advice. I'm sorry you feel bad, though. You don't deserve that whatsoever. ** Alan, Yeah, I don't want to get to into the sci-fi thing because I'm too unschooled in that genre to try my hand, but the idea of a narrative happening in a context where cannibalism is either a phenomenon or widespread practice is something to think about and a way to think that I generally don't. I tend to be interested in creating hermetic things that only infer a broader context. So the thinking differently idea is an intriguing one. Oh, Edward Hibbert, okay. My agent Ira was with that agency for a long time until early this year, and I know there was complicated deal that was made when he left, so Pallahniuk must have stayed with the agency as part of that. Oh, is Pallahniuk a strange writer for me to like? I mean I'm most interested in his first books, and I thought the prose in them had a very interesting shape and taste. And his interests are not totally opposed to mine, as differently configured as they are. And I guess I feel like as far as very successful young American novelists go, he's a pretty good prose dispenser relative to the bulk. But I was more interested in his stuff some years ago than I am now, although I don't really feel anything negative towards his work. What is it that you particularly don't like about him? I've heard about that supposedly ultra-shocking story of his, of course. It really is? I figured it was just a prank or something. ** Craig, Hey. You made me laugh with that thing about French sounding stupid. I'm the total opposite. I'll overhear people on the street or in cafes talking, and it sounds to me like they must be saying the most profound and beautiful things, but then French friends will tell me they were talking about Paris Hilton or something. So, yeah, I'm a massive fan or sucker for the French language. To me it's like the language God would speak or whatever. Anyway, yeah, that made me laugh, which is good. Man, that's super nice of you to want to me send me something. I mean you don't have to at all. I mean I'd be pleased, but, you know, that's very kind of you. I can watch American DVDs on my computer. Otherwise, it has to be the European code. But my computer is locked into playing only American format DVDs. So were you happy or sad or indifferent about Murray beating Mr. Sex on Wheels Nadal? ** Jax, Yeah, it's the blog and the way I do the blog, i.e. wanting every day to be a surprise and a shift, that's hampering. So it has fucked with my attention span as well as eating up my time and energy. But so it goes for now. I mean there will come a day when I don't want to do this anymore, but I don't know when, and the when doesn't seem imminent. I'm not sure if I was transitioning away from fiction before I started the blog. It's hard to tell. And since my longing to write another novel is unceasing, I'm not sure what kind of transition I'm in exactly. It's confusing, basically. I may be drawing parallels between us that don't exist and just projecting, but I do think the fear you have of realizing things is probably 80% fear. It's what the fear is about that's the question. Yeah, totally, on the identity thing. Same deal with me. But it's to the point where a writer is entirely what I am. I can't conceive of myself not being a writer. I'd be bored shitless for one thing. I have a lot of energy, and I know writing is what I do best. I know that for sure. So finding some other way to dispel my energy that didn't involve writing would always seem like second best, and I think that would be extremely depressing. I think for me at least it's partly that I need to stop being so precious with myself about my writing. I need to stop requiring a truly great idea of myself before I get into it. That's what I'm doing at the moment. Maybe I'm imposing standards for myself that aren't relevant anymore, and I need to just do what I feel like doing. I don't know. Ring any bells? ** It's 12:49 by my clock and time to go. I thought this guy's stuff and ideas up above were interesting, but see what you think. I think I'll see you tomorrow. Yeah, I'm sure I will.
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56 comments:
Yay - more architecture!
Dominic is liking the new job but finding it a little hard to like a couple of the kids. House sale may well be back on track - should know later today. Hope Lypsynch makes it to Paris - Le Page is Quebecois and its a multilingual production so there are no obvious barriers.
Stan You're not getting bitten by some bugs picked up on your travels I hope - if you've got round spots that would be my guess
Heliotrope05 thats horrid news and I share you anger with the world.
Hey Dennis,
I haven't figured out what the allergy is about yet, but I'm doing my investigation. Today I have no allergic reaction. If it's the same tomorrow I think I should know what I'm dealing with. But I don't think it's anything serious.
The election thing is just eating up my energy. It's tiresome and bleak. Anyway, you're right, Obama has to push like crazy now and I'm very happy about what he said regarding McCain's "change" propositions. Obama is much better at knowing how to attack his opponents than the previous democratic candidates were. He calls out their hypocrisies but never goes "too far", as much as I personally would like to see that.
marc: Filling the Hunter Thompson void? I'm far away from the everlasting genius of good old Hunter, but I have learned a lot from him and have always tried to keep his spirit alive. So I'd like to try, sure. Fighting for the truth is the most important thing in life (and journalism) today, particularly because it's dying.
davidc: Nope, the spots aren't round. I don't think it's bugs. It's a normal allergic reaction with large red marks that appear on my arms, stomach etc. Today no sign of them, which is good.
antonio: Just wanted to ask again whether these film editing softwares you are using are freeware.
steevee: Thanks for the Moving Image Source tip. Who shall I contact there. Also, I wrote an email to Brian Sholis and am hoping that something will work out. And I hope that your medical condition gets better soon man.
Small town values...
Coool architecture!
They've set Pain up with a softball interview by Charlie Gibson of ABC, Dennis. But the truth about her Fundie fascism is mounting so it may not go as smoothly as planned by sheer force the questions he may find himself obliged to ask -- or be castigated for not asking.
I disagree with you about late bertolucci. The Last Emperor -- whil essentially a remake of The Conformist is quite interesting. And I LOVE The Sheltering Sky. Rarely has a film had a stronger sense of place. But then I love the desert. Bertolucci makes it clear that Malkovich is attracted to Scott, can't deal with it and flees. On op of that the entire trip is a slow motion suicide on his part. Plus when he dies Winger BECOMES him in a decidedly Italian horror movie way.
Where Bertoluci really falls apart is with that silly thing he did with Liv Tyler (Rochelle, Rochelle I think it was called )and the even sillier one with David Thewlis playing the piano.
hey dennis, yesterday we got the SAFE+Dennis Cooper cd...UGLY MAN
so i posted up a photograph of how it looks, its sounds incredible, pauls going to send you on copies this week
yeah, i have the last week of october off work, il be doing the ossuary show then, after that i still have 2 weeks left so i ought to realy make plans to travel away somewhere around xmass, no 1 in my mind is ethiopia, somewhere as alien as possible
hope your good, alex,x
Here’s the Palahniuk story. It is a prank, but it’s a literary prank because its effect depends on the audience identifying with something they really don’t want to if they’re at all squeamish. It was fun. I don’t know if it works as well on the page. In terms of his work in general, I guess I don’t relate to the recovering-your-manhood thing. I did find his first couple books readable. I would have said that any overlap in content between his work and yours was very superficial, but it’s interesting to me that you felt differently to some extent. It makes sense, actually.
Some bad news: the turtle egg I’ve been incubating for the past three months, carefully watching its temperature and making sure it stayed moist enough, is dead. It’s like a metaphor for my summer.
Oh and The Dreamers was beyond awful. A complete waste of Louis Garrel. Thankfully his father corrected that mistake via his masterful Les Amants Reguliers
The Dreamers was doomed from the start due to the re-closeting of its co-scripter (and author of the novel on which it was based) Gilbert Adair -- a former friend and colleague of mine.
Re:the people we pay to protect us.
A writer/producer from The Wire says they found that in Baltimore black jurors weren't finding the accused guilty anywhere near as much as white jurors nearby.
He found that, not long before, with elections coming up the cops were arresting people without cause in huge numbers to bump up the figures.
Perhaps that explains it.
"I wasn't arrested. Nor was Ed Burns or Dominic West or Aidan Gillen. Nor were my neighbours or the Baltimore Sun's editors or the members of the Maryland Club. But then, we're all white. Among the black members of my cast and crew, it was often impossible to drive from the film set to home at night without being stopped - and in some cases detained or arrested - on nonexistent probable cause and nonexistent charges. The crackdown came wholly in black neighbourhoods and it landed wholly on the backs of black citizens.
Here's the Great but scary article
Back to work...
hi dennis
another fascinating day, Cronemberg obviously comes to mind but i need to explore a lot more
thanks again to you for everything, man, i´ll tell you more about that "spa without spa" holiday when all is certain
jax,
if you may excuse a little more pedantry, Heraclitus was not Athenian but from somewhere in the Ionian coast of present-day Turkey i think -like most of his pre-socratic colleagues
heliothrope05
i also send my best wishes to you and your nephew, really hope it all ends up in a better way than it looks now
Hey Motherfuckers,
I got quoted in the Financial Times:
Call of the Wild
(very last section, first paragraph)
HELIO -
I hope your nephew is recovering well. I wish I could say something that would make it feel better. I have to admit, this has raised my violent ire as well. xxx
ALAN -
Don't feel bad. Hatching reptile eggs can be more difficult than you think. All kinds of things can get em; fungus, improper diet of the mother, maybe they were already duds. You did what you could. What kind of turtle were they from?
helio, sorry about your nephew. i hope he's able to heal up okay and get on with things without this totally demoralizing him. my thoughts are with you and him.
(a carry-over from yesterday) A Bigger Splash is one of my favoirte movies, Antonio. It's a dcoumentary that looks like fiction film. Jack Hazan took YEARS to shoot it. So many that David Hockney forget about it for the most part until seeing it brought it all back. it took years for him to get over that. The film is about his break up with Peter Sclesinger -- a true American beauty. Lots of nice footage of Schlesinger getting it on with another guy. Plus plenty of Hockney working, flirting, chatting with Henry Gelzahler et. al. A few years back Jack Larson introduced me to peter Schelsinger at a Don Bachardy opening. Still as lovely as ever. Hockney was in the gallery that night too but didn't appear to be perturbed. Time heals all wounds they say.
Ozzie Clark, whose self and fashiosn are featured in the film, eventually left his wife Celia for another guy -- who murdered him.
Beyond sad.
hey hey
man, what an incredible bunch of stuff today. timing, timing. i want to live in that. i mean, ideally i want to live inside the body of the man i love but it aint gonna happen is it? not this century anyway. i intend to force-reincarnate myself in him with or without his or their fucking consent thus becoming the first true dead rapist in the history of mankind's little series of vices and abnormalities.
BUT until then, that kind of architecture would do just fine. i'm sure you won't be surprised it's to my taste.
please cronenberg, quit attempting orchestrating the Fucking Fly With Fucking Tenors and spawn us one of those little bio-sexual (that's redundant right?) beauties...
i have no proper internet but i will get some soon. ish. no really, i promise.
i've finally found a place where i don't have to deal with the human race, which was long overdue. been drawing a lot, i've updated my blog with a few stuff and there is more to come cause i'm on a roll.
laa-lala
.
so dude, what's up in your crazy world? ooh, i saw thurston moore a few days ago. i think my brother talked to him and is supposed to say hi to you from him. or something. he was good, man. what a fucking surprise eh?
nothing fantastic otherwise. i am considering having my right hand tattooed with a huge X and then studs subdermally inserted along the lines, so when i punch or slap stumbling rambling incoherent zombified drunk fuckheads in their sorry confused face they get its mark.
should i?
xx
w
Very nice! All the right references to get me excited (ok, I'm predictable)... Does the marcusandmarjan book have the illustrations in the post? None of the listings I've seen say anything about it being illustrated, hmm...
On a similar theme, you guys might enjoy:
http://meatbook.iat.sfu.ca/index.html
(It's a bit more limited than the implications, but a good start.)
Bill
The latest Gallup poll has McCain at 49% and Obama at 44%. What's going on?
Wolf,
This is magnificent...
so this is for you!
xxx
Apparently the citizens want to ruin the US completely by voting for another four years of fascist theocracy. This is why the US are so hated overseas. To cite Kucinich, WAKE UP AMERICA!
...when (and what I fear most: how) will this nightmare end?
I always wondered why the people who feature in a bigger splash agreed to the film at all, cause no one really gets to look like his best on it, I find everyone pretty sad and depressiving. maybe that was what makes it so "authentic". was it meant as cinema verite? or was this just the outcome?
and now for a bit of twee from the land of roger p.!
Gore was way ahead of Bush in the Gallup poll, as I trust you recall.
Halloween in LA with you and Yury sounds like bliss to me! I'm definitely doing that!
It's not that it's popular in Spain, you won't get any trick or treat kids, but you can find pumpkins and stuff like that in shops. That's pretty much it.
I never thought of the French and Halloween but you're right, it's so weird they haven't developed a taste for it with their sinister literary tradition. I can picture the Sade Spooky House perfectly.
Today's architecture reminded me a bit of one of Xet's posts in our blog: http://pissandpoopism.blogspot.com/2008/02/surreal-flesh.html
Good luck with the radio play. By the way, I was thinking the other day about what you mentioned a while back about the possibility of bringing "Jerk" to Barcelona. Any news on that?
Oh! I think Distimium already told you about it but last week I translated the first two songs for the Guide compilation he's doing. I think he had a brilliant idea doing that.
x
Montse
Dennis,
I searched 'Peter Sotos Lordotics' yesterday, and discovered an interesting blog called The Hoover Hog. Do you know the guy, Chip Smith, who writes it? I recognize his face. Has he posted here?
He wrote some interesting posts about antinatalism. That was my first encounter with the word antinatalism. I spent the rest of the day reading about antinatalism. I'm fascinated by it now. Well, I already was, but I didn't know there was a name for it.
There are some other blogs I like that discuss antinatalism here and here.
Chip Smith is my favorite contemporary author about the subject so far. He also wrote a post about Andrea Dworkin and Peter Sotos.
Anyway, that's what I've been interested in lately.
Take me to Broadway!
Thanks, SHAI. I've had this pair of Chinese box turtles for years and this was the female's first egg. You have reptiles too? What kind?
alan
i have kept as pets; russian ratsnake, chinese twinspotted ratsnake, western diamondback, tokay gecko, razorback musk turtle, malayan box turtle, eastern box turtle, texas tortoise, alabama sawback turtle, tiger salamander, gulf coast waterdog, senegalese walking frog, malayan painted toad, and dwarf clawed frog.
right now its just an eastern newt, a bunch of fish in a 90 gal aquarium, and a zebra tarantula.
professionally, i care for all kinds of things.
you asked. ha.
when a turtle only lays one egg in captivity, it's often a dud. it was probably never going to hatch in the first place. its kind of a romantic exercise in futility, but it was very sweet.
Hey, folks.
Heliotrope05: I'm very sorry to hear about your nephew, and wish you both the very best. I want to say something about being impressed by the acuity of you dropping the Withnail quote, but can't figure out a way to do it that doesn't sound either (a) crass or (b) over-familiar, so here you go.
Dennis: I spent most of my weekend labouring over a fucked server, brief periods of frantic bewildered invention separated by literally hours of watching progress bars inch across the screen. The Duvert writing crept across some very delicate areas and the writing on pornography made me want to punch the air with recognition. Stunning. Thank you. The Gacy story was quoted directly by Pete Quaife in MOJO 148. June '65, apparently. There's a long and deliciously weird Ray interview that threads through the rest of the trivia. I've had a couple of neat-like ideas for the days - hur, those endless days, those precious days, etc - but I'll spare you the sizzle and just mail them through when ready. I think I caught the directions you laid out in an earlier p.s., so that's all gravy. I've been twenty-seven for a couple of weeks now, and it's weird. The old self-loathing isn't what it used to be...
After the weekend's heroics, getting some time booked to head down to Paris should be a snap, and I'll be sure to let y'know plenty in advance what my itinerary is. I'd hate to impose, 'course, but meeting you'd be as much of a trip as Mark Eitzel with Greeks on top (this is a good thing). It's very generous of you to volunteer and I'm very grateful.
I seem to have stopped eating meat. This is very disorienting.
Ok, here's Surface Tension. I am FAR from being thoroughly satisfied with it. I had an idea in my head and couldn't really find a better way to flesh it out. But, here it is. I will be writing another comment shortly.
Surface Tension
Jesse Peter Hudson
There was a lake from his childhood that remained cemented in the subconscious of his imagination and he would often, unintentionally, return to it in his poetry and short stories, giving it mystical and almost supernatural qualities. It felt like a part of him was buried there on the shore and, despite the franticness of every day conflict and melodrama, he could feel the lake calling to him, pulling him back to a place he’d only return to in his mind’s eye through the medium of nightmares and daydreams.
And yet here it was, a dreamscape on the tip of his tongue, beckoning—no, demanding—to be visited and adored once more for its inescapably enigmatic presence in his past.
"We’re going on a trip," he announced, smiling at the look of undeterred joy on Hugo’s face. The dog, his only companion, wagged the clump of matted fur that he used as a tail and looked up at Victor before returning to his well-worn (and vehemently guarded) section of the sofa. "Then it’s settled," Victor exclaimed with mock enthusiasm as he, with the aid of a wolf’s head cane, returned to the typewriter and attempted, quite futilely, to continue with his newest story.
But the lake wouldn’t remain suppressed. Every sentence he typed was found to have an obviously water-related image or metaphor. It was an aggravation that Victor hoped a trip to the lake could cure. He would go tomorrow—his writing would be beyond repair if he waited longer. And perhaps he would find a source of inspiration in an unusual plant or in the gaze of an empty-eyed gull and then his muse would descend like an enflamed Raphael and unclog his ballpoint. He smirked sardonically at the ’mock heroic epic’—ness of it all. It begged to be put into a Stephen King novel—an aging writer is plagued by the memory of a childhood landscape and, upon returning, is blessed with a wealth of bestsellers but, by an uncommon coincidence, he must sell his soul to a demented contemporary counterpart to Mephistopheles.
Night had drawn its curtain around the sun’s body of light outside and the trees began to cast menacing shadows in the gathering gloom. Victor despised the night. It told secrets in the blackness, secrets that were never revealed. He’d been afraid of the dark since he was a young boy and had lived with his quarreling parents…near the lake. The lake (unnamed or belonging to a forgotten name) had been the western border of his parents’ estate in the northernmost county of California where they had lived for the entirety of his youth. The house had been enormous, the kind of place you could actually get lost in. And the shadows. Oh god, the shadows. They hung to every ceiling, crept along every baseboard, and crammed themselves into every closet. Night in that house was like an eternal darkness that drained your soul habitually. He and his mother had once gone to sit on the dock of the lake when night suddenly fell. They hadn’t anticipated sunset and, therefore, hadn’t brought along a flashlight. They walked through the blackness holding hands and the only sounds were their occasional gasps of breath or gasps at an unexpected hole in the ground. They’d made it back eventually, their hearts pounding at their rib cages with relief and their hands numb with cold. His father had been drunk in front of the television, oblivious and apathetic to their frightening escapade.
But, along with the pimples and awkwardness of adolescence, the Divorce had come. It was a bloody battle, one that his father won. He gained the house and its estate along with the lake. His mother won next to nothing: him. He and his mother had been forced to move and settle with less ’prestigious’ means of residency—various apartments that were vacated as soon as the rent became too much for his single mother to handle. He’d never heard from his father again. No birthday cards or phone calls. So, as a small and unsatisfying ploy at revenge, Victor refused to attend his father’s funeral.
And now here he was, an old man who was beginning to see the creeping shadows of a hearse on its way. A man who was still afraid of the dark. He laughed and shrugged at Hugo who had decided that, considering Victor’s close proximity with the can opener, it was in his best interest to stick around. Victor began to close the curtains, a habit he normally had completed before sundown but had been too preoccupied with the lake to remember. It was a cold night and the windows, with thin sheets of water dripping from them, were like gaping mouths begging to be fed. So he closed the curtains and shut out the night. Somewhere in the distance a dog was howling in a peculiarly mournful way and Hugo perked his ears, listening. But he soon lost interest and, with the hope of food gone, returned to the sofa.
Victor went to bed early. But, after hours of tossing about in tangled sheets, it was proven a useless attempt to gain extra rest. A chorus of dogs had set in, not howling but practically screaming with grief and (Victor tried to ignore the thought) perhaps even fright.
After a while he finally fell asleep. And the only thing that threatened to awake him was the fierce scratching at his bedroom window, a sound that, had he been awake, he would have likened to the sound of a pen scratching across fresh paper. But even that eventually subsided.
The next day boasted a dark violet sky that promised nothing short of a deluge. But Victor was determined. Three caffeine tablets downed with the richness of black coffee cured him of any effects that the previous night’s insomnia might have induced. Hugo, it seemed, was just as eager to leave the house. He had, since waking, been peculiarly anxious and wouldn’t eat, whining at the slightest creak of the wooden floors. Victor ignored his restlessness as his veins were flooded with the sweet rush of adrenaline, an internal deluge to match the eminent one in the sky. It would take a little over an hour and a half to reach the lake if he drove like a madman and that was exactly what he intended to do. He had to have this done. His publisher would be calling in less than a week and he needed to show some sign of progression towards something other than death.
He walked outside with his cup of coffee, looking up into the swirling maelstrom of purple fluff overhead. It would definitely rain. It had been raining practically everyday that week, the ground devouring every drop like floorboards soaking up blood in a haunted house.
’I am going to be looking into the murky waters of that damned nuisance of a lake today and nothing’s going to keep me from the piece of mind that that sight will surely bring,’ he thought, smiling contentedly. He walked back inside and tossed the coffee cup into the sink so violently that it shattered in a cloud of flying ceramic. He ignored the mess, grabbed his cane, coaxed Hugo into the passenger seat, and they were off.
* * * * * * * *
The truck rattled something awful. ’It sounds like a metallic sack of bones,’ he thought, chuckling at the unlikely simile. The sky remained bitter, brooding with deep grumbles of thunder that grew louder and louder as it approached. He was beginning to recognize roads, their names and peculiarities aroused from the depths of his memory. ’We are now entering The Twilight Zone.’ Everything was dark and murky and seemed to be posing a threat to his unwanted trespass. In fact, he half expected to either see a mentally insane and sadistic hitchhiker appear or to hear the telltale banjos of Deliverance come creeping out of the murk. Hugo didn’t like the environment either. He fidgeted constantly, rising up to peer out of the window and edging back along the seat with his hair raised and a growl in his throat. He could see or sense something that Victor remained contentedly oblivious to.
Hoping to distract Hugo (and himself) from the eeriness outside, Victor had turned on the radio. It was static. He turned the well-worn knob but there was nothing. Not on any station, FM or AM. "Spookier and spookier," he exclaimed to Hugo, his eyes wide and a grin beaming. He turned back to the road and was greeted by a flash of brilliantly bright lightening that ripped the sky down the middle and, with jagged zigzags, sewed it back up.
About ten minutes later he saw the house. His father’s house. The House of Shadows. It was still standing quite well but the paint was in bad repair and the porch was beginning to sag under the weight of mildew and dust. There were only a few trees around the house and the image of the three story neglected mansion standing against a background of open sky and flashing lightening was more than a little unnerving. It looked like the monster he had remembered it as, its windows, now curtain less, black and hungry, and the gables like giant fingers that offered to skewer anyone willing. He shuddered. He couldn’t prevent it; it was the effect of long-lost and better forgotten memories returning like a tidal wave, washing over him in one fell swoop. The surface of a memory (one he remembered best in nightmares) brushed against him and he shivered again. The day they’d left him alone. Alone in the House. The Thing in the closet that was later seen beneath the Stairs. He clenched the wolf’s head cane and tried to regain his nerve. He would need it when he saw the lake.
The water was calm, a black mirror. Victor climbed out of the truck, his legs shaking with cold and fright, and slowly walked towards the edge of the water, the scene so still and quiet that it had the appearance of an unnerving yet brutally honest piece of postmodern artwork. Despite his fear, the writer inside him couldn’t help but describe the lake in a metaphorical sense: A reflection of America’s soul, a big black nothingness in which to drown or a symbol of humanity’s unconscious fear of water, a state of being that began in the womb, was structured through baptism, and then cemented by the movie Psycho. But Victor knew what was really going on here—absolutely nothing to be afraid of.
That was when he first saw the red light gleaming from across the lake. He froze. It was moving closer, gliding over the water’s surface, trailing a foggy haze. As it got closer he thought it resembled the blood red eyes he’d seen somewhere before, but he couldn’t really be sure. He couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and could barely breathe. He just stood there with Hugo clinging to his leg and waited as the light got closer and closer. It was the Thing beneath the stairs, the Thing from the closet, the Thing that, whether he had known it or not, he had come here to meet. Not the lake. Not the house. The Thing.
Eventually he found his voice, cracked and shaky. "Who are you?"
A voice, as smooth and thin as smoke, whispered across the distance: "Anything you want. I could be myself, your creation, your creator, or even you."
"B…b…but that doesn’t make any sense."
"Why should it? Nothing makes sense. Can you honestly claim that you understand trigonometry or the laws of the universe? It’s the same kind of thing. Above your reach, unattainable."
"Then what do you want?"
"Well…..I suppose you."
"Me???"
The light was upon him now, piercing him. The voice offered no answer, choosing to remain apathetically silent. A million different things fluttered in the world: ashes, snowflakes, and sand. Tress whispered and the wind sighed; people opened their eyes and people closed them. Everything was calm in a fixed unreality.
Victor stood there waiting to see what would happen next but it appeared as though nothing would. Whoever had ordained and constructed this situation had apparently run out of ideas. Everything remained calm.
The voice, now coming from inside Victor’s head, whispered, "Look in the lake. Look in the water, Victor. Even the creator can be a creation."
He bent over cautiously, his shoes sinking into the mud. There was his face painted on the water’s surface, older than he remembered. There were deep lines on his face, a personalized detail that the water couldn’t have produced-only imitated. When had he grown so old?? He felt an immense loss at that moment, a feeling that his whole life had been leading up to this point and that everything in between birth and this moment had been pointless, meaningless attempts to prolong an inevitable today. ’But what did I really lose?’ he thought. ’And, for that matter, what did I ever gain??’
And then the surface began to change. It started as only a brief tremor, a hint at some malevolent undercurrent, and then the water seemed to cave in as though it was a piece of paper suspended in air and someone was pushing a fingertip down upon the center. Images floated towards the surface, shimmering and fading in and out, the colors brightening and dimming until they were so lucid they burned his eyes. Orange, red, green, blue, black… The colors were like tiny droplets of wet paint falling upon a canvas and bouncing back towards the sky, painting clouds and stars.
His parents, the Divorce, the house, the Thing, even himself—all meaningless now.
He could see himself in the liquid, a small and insignificant portion of a much larger painting. A painting of dazzling beauty. But just as the painting was nearing completion, the colors turned to words, a million of them writhing and twisting themselves into sentences that flashed before his eyes.
This isn’t reality. .
Paper and pen are merely tools with which you attempt to mimic what only I am capable of.
Authors lie.
But I lie too.
This is reality.
His eyes began to bleed, the black blood dripping into the water and forming new words.
There was a lake from his childhood…
His feet were slipping in the mud, sliding closer and closer to the edge of the water.
You’re write.
The water touched him and it felt like his entire body was melting, dripping down into the lake. His foot had betrayed him and the water soaked his leg, ripping under his skin and unraveling his insides.
Shall we begin???
Victor tried to understand what was happening but all he knew was that
there was a lake from his childhood that remained cemented in the subconscious of his imagination and he would often, unintentionally, return to it in his poetry and short stories, giving it mystical and almost supernatural qualities. It felt like a part of him was buried there on the shore…..
Here's one that I like a little better. It's kind of how my mother made me feel. It's kind of just a short joke type thing.
Mother Knows Best
Jesse Peter Hudson
Mother enters the room, her hands on her hips and a determined look on her face. Mark, her son, sits on his bed looking through a tattered and dog-eared copy of Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition. He hasn’t yet noticed her appearance.
“I found another candy wrapper underneath the couch today.”
Mark quickly looks up and removes his hand from his crotch simultaneously. He looks at her with a mixture of apathy and bemusement.
“A candy wrapper? Hmmm…it probably means I was eating candy.”
“You don’t need to each so much of that damn—excuse me—darn junk food. Its making you fat and it isn’t healthy.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“I just can’t for the life of me understand why you insist on treating me so badly. I didn’t raise you to eat junk food.”
“No, mother. There comes a time in everyone’s life when they make that decision for themselves.”
He sighs, rolls his eyes, and groans in annoyance. This is a mistake. These are his mother’s pet peeves….
The butcher knife appears from nowhere and digs into Mark’s stomach. His eyes open wide in surprise and, unable to speak, he simply stares at Mother. Blood gushes from the wound, staining the magazine and sheets.
“Now I’m going to have to wash these sheets again. That’s the second time this week.”
She grunts as she twists the knife deeper and deeper in a semicircular arc that scrapes away nerves and the meat from bone.
Mark passes out.
She continues to gouge away slimy pink tissue, finally giving up on the knife, and uses her hands to spread the spurting sides of the gash further apart. Mark’s intestines gleam in the dull light and she shakes her head, knowing that she will need a new manicure tomorrow. Her hands slip and falter as she pulls his small intestine through the slit and places it in a neat steaming pile on the pillow. Internal fluids stream from the worm-like cord, puddle up on the bed, and spill to the floor in waterfalls of brown, yellow, and red.
When she reaches his stomach she uses the knife to sever it from the surrounding organs and cuts a hand-sized slit through the top. Pushing her hand inside, she digs around for a moment and then smiles, having found what she was looking for.
In her hand she holds the bile-covered and half-digested remains of a candy bar.
“Now, I’m going to put this where it belongs…the trash.”
Mark’s intestine slowly begins to fall off the pillow, and, leaving a sticky trail behind, it hits the floor with a sickening splatter.
“This too,” she says, bundling it in her arms.
“Now get yourself cleaned up and ready for dinner. We’ll be having vegetables.”
Mark’s eyes are rolled back towards the ceiling, but he doesn’t talk back.
And, finally, (sorry to be taking up so much room), here are portions of the thing I'm working on now. So far it's basically just little snippets of things that I have either dreamed or daydreamed about.
“My name is William Byers.”
He nods, looking as though the information is entirely meaningless and it is. He doesn’t’ tell me anything about himself and I am glad for it because personal information always seems to ruin the thrill that I get from these situations.
He unzips his jeans, trying his best to look sexy and alluring and only succeeding in looking desperate and confused. I suck his dick, he sucks mine, and I stab him in the throat a couple of times, watching his confused look multiply into oblivion. I throw his useless body into the woods and drive away.
A group of young children are gathered in a subterranean cafeteria-like room in which a number of bookshelves have been assembled along the walls. He sits on top of the tallest bookshelf and looks down at the children as they select which book they would like to read. A little girl in a pink dress lifts a hardback copy of Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom and returns to one of the tables, leafing through the dusty pages and occasionally smiling to herself.
After he has dispatched each of the children, he wanders through each of their rooms, rummaging through their personal belongings and sniffing their underwear. Chunks of shit float like macabre fish in the toilets. Roaches squirm under his feet, scrambling into the dark recesses of closets and nestling alongside the rats. He feels lonely without the children there, an intense but not necessarily honest feeling.
My mother’s handyman was named Jean Genet. When he was thrown into prison, she blamed me.
2. He takes a small girl and locks her in a room isolated in the dark recesses of his house. A TV screen continually plays the extended version of 'High School Musical' on repeat. The girl begins to cry and, deprived of meaning, passes out.
The pen, always erect, is mightier than the penis but both leave annoying stains
....And things like that. It's mainly crap, I know. I am still working on the Brian Eno death scene.
Sorry about all this used up space.
A few more little random sentences and such from what I'm doing now:
I did not write this. Before we begin, I think it is crucial for you to know that much. I did not write this and I probably never will. Maybe you wrote it or will or maybe it was never written at all and you’re just reading random ejaculations of ink that mean nothing except for what you choose for them to mean.
Your bowels release themselves when you die. This is akin to emptying a garbage can of its trash—the can is intimately related to the garbage.
I ripped up the pictures of him and threw the pieces into the garbage like a bottle of bad pills, unnervingly addictive and strangely powerful. I knew that I would soon be experiencing withdrawals but I would deal with that later. The pictures had been like the first drop of wine on an alcoholic’s tongue, leading to a compulsive habit that I could hardly comprehend. The symmetry of his face was perfect, both sharply chiseled and soft, and his eyes were dark blue pits that evoked an uncomfortable and erotic churning in my gut. I stood there over the garbage can tearing his face in half, ruining every seemingly perfect aspect and trying to make his eyes disappear. The strangest thing was that I had never even met the boy before. Never talked to him or seen him in person. I’d discovered the pictures in an old magazine of “up-and-coming” male models in the bottom of a magazine rack. No, I had never masturbated to the picture before. I had far too much respect for his beauty to do that. But looking at the pictures always gave me this weird ecstatic feeling that felt somehow akin to orgasm. I suppose the pictures were a way for….my soul to masturbate. That seems wrong. I shouldn’t have said it. It all seemed so fucking corny, like something to do with love. I looked at the pieces of his face amongst the remains of last night’s spaghetti and it looked like blood, the noodles like intestines. I imagined that it was and somehow I felt satisfied, horny even. I went up to my room and masturbated, not to the memory of his face but to the illusion of carnage.
These aren’t confessions because it’s not that simple. Don’t let your mind cut away the rough edges and create something more understandable.
David E I didn't mind Stealing Beauty, couldn't watch the Thewlis vehicle and thought The Dreamers was narcissistic tarted up bullshit. Louis Garrel looks so disinterested in his costars that he seems narcoleptic.
Paluhniuk's story didn't make me faint but I suspect I've read more horror than most of his auditors. Guts does have a campfire tale quality that probably makes it a terrific spoken reading.
He's not disinterested -- HE'S FRENCH!!!!
Dennis, These neverending rooms make me dizzy and queasy, more than claustrophobic. They have to end! I guess.
My neck hurts. My sensai put a submission hold on me that I broke by eating through his forearms. Needless to say, I wrecked my neck setting myself free. He canceled next week's lesson.
DavidE, Obama was up by 12 points last week! This is more than the convention bounce, isn't it? I always thought McCain would beat Obama. I think it's gonna happen.
SYpHA_69: Yes, i really do like Lovecraft. I guess my favorite story is 'The Call of Cthulhu'. I don't know though. I like basically everything by him that I've read. He has this really neat way of making me feel extremely nervous and claustrophobic somehow that I really enjoy. What's your favorite?
Are voters really THAT predictable? One sits there, follows the presidential race and believes that most people are intelligent enough to look past the surface of white skin and tits and (I know I'm repeating myself) pay attention to content. Apparently I'm wrong. You choose an incompetent lying sack of shit as your VP running mate, but that doesn't matter to the voters because said running mate happens to be of their gender.
"What we're going to have to do is to see how things settle out over the next few weeks when people start examining who's actually going to deliver on the issues that people care about: Who's got an education policy to improve the prospects for our children? Who's got a healthcare plan that's going to help a whole bunch of women out there?"
Yes, all very nice, but what about who's a xenophobic, war-mongering lunatic with a creationist, homophobic running mate and who's not?
Sorry that I'm going on and on here with my outbursts of anger, but I simply cannot believe what is going on.
well my anger has subsided a bit...mainly I'm just worried about Sean now. He is, of course, bewildered and very depressed.
As to what exactly happened, he went to a bar with friend in downtown LA...said friend freaked and ran out of the bar, down a dark alley, got held up (unbeknownst to my nephew)...Sean went to get her and got his face smashed with a gun. He's lucky he didn't get shot. Then the cops (who showed up 1 and 1/2 hours later while lay there bleeding) treated him like he was the criminal...they didn't even get him to a hospital and the police report looks like it was written by a five year old.
As for the friend, well she showed an incredible amount of naivete...you don't mess with downtown no matter how "gentrified" you think it is. Still it was a mad bit of fate, and I'm proud that Sean went after her...that was the right thing to do. Sometimes you pay for having principles. But I do wish he'd hang out with a more savvy crowd...so sayeth the uncle.
Anyway, he'll be seeing a plastic surgeon and, as a two time victim of violent crime myself, he'll have me to run interference on any pending post tramatic stress issues (which in my experience, can be very weird and debilitating in and of itself).
Thanks to everyone who lent an ear and sent their well wishes regarding Sean. Because I'm so proud of him and admire his brains and heart...I put up some pix of the young buck on my Sunspots blog (yes I'm showing showing him off...he fucking rules). He is really a great man and he'll be fine eventually...as I said, he's alive and that's all that matters in the end. Fucking gangs, fucking guns, fucking fuck...what a bunch of (fill in the derogatory term of choice). Sorry for any typos...didn't sleep very well last night.
What was up with me yesterday? Sorry about that.
Dennis:
Thanks for the compliment on my writing. I really appreciate it. I think the 2 pieces you saw (Rotten and the razor blade thing) are my favorites really. The stuff I put up today is just kind of stuff I saved from the trash heap when it probably should have stayed.
I couldn't agree more with what you said about novels and poems being infections. And readers are definitely a necessary ingredient--especially what they bring to the story. That's what, I think, can be so 'incriminating' (for the reader) about certain writing. I mean, it's just ink on a page. THEY are the ones who flesh it out in their minds and, therefore, the way they imagined it is, in some way, a reflection of who they are. That is utterly fascinating to me. I mean, how to we change words flat on a page into an image in our mind... And books mean absolutely nothing when there's no one around to read them so (and this is a wild stab in the dark) perhaps the human mind, when reading a book, brings something to it that is inherently 'deranged' that allows them to see images of it in their mind when, most likely, they haven't seen it in real life. That, I think, is where movies fail. No matter how convincing the effects are, the viewer always, in some way, knows that it is just a bunch of lighting, special effects, etc. Not always so with fiction. So viewing a movie is definitely a 'passive' act while reading a book requires an 'active' relationship with the text. Hmmm... And, of course, the author puts a little (or big) piece of themselves into their book so it's kind of like the author is having a conversation with the reader through the characters....... Of course, that's obvious, I guess. It just fascinates me. It’s kind of, in a weird way, like the author’s imagination and the reader’s imagination copulate and form the resulting images.
And then, of course, the whole 'feeling' you can get when reading or writing a book. God, it really IS like a drug. Writing is such an interesting act (even when disregarding the actual material being written) because, for me, I get really excited if I think it's good. And when I'm writing it I try to get into the idea of actually participating in the scene so in a way my characters are acting for me vicariously. I wrote something a long time ago where I was a character in the story but also the writer too. And I would be sitting at the computer typing (in the story) out (sometimes random) things for the characters to do so it was kind of like playing God by creating a story in which I was playing the part of God. It was fun. And then (in the story) I kind of did the whole 'Flood' thing and pressed 'Delete' at the end of the story because my character in the story was sick of all the other characters. But first, I had tried to 'release' them by letting them leave the story but they were too confused because they were programmed to think only what I wanted them to think.. Now I'm rambling. I need to find that story. It's around here somewhere. I think it was called "Caricature".
"The Blair Witch Project" scared the fucking shit out of me. When I first watched it I was stupid enough to think that I could watch it home at night by myself. BIG mistake. I was looking over my shoulder nonstop and more or less tiptoeing around. I think I have this big fear of being lost or 'trapped.' Probably has to do with the fact that I got locked in a Pizza Hut bathroom when I was little and had to slam on the door and scream so someone could come get me out. I rarely use public restrooms now...
I am really looking forward to Bataille Day tomorrow. Oh, and I hope you can find a copy of 'The Room.' To me it was more intense than 'Last Exit'. It really made my stomach churn occasionally. Not because of the images necessarily but because of the intensity with which he described them. And you'll definitely have to share some of the torture techniques with me one day.
Jesse
oh, one more thing...I didn't mean to be histrionic yesterday or today. If it appears that way I apologize to everyone. This whole thing pushed some buttons in me...my cousin had his head staved in by a lead pipe coming out of a gay bar in the early 80's and was never really the same after coming out of his coma (he died of AIDS in '87...he was sweetness incarnate...I always felt ripped off because I missed him even while he was alive and then he was truly gone). That coupled with my getting attacked a couple of times...well, it's little wonder that I freak...but this isn't necessarily the place to air my fears. Your collective indulgence has been appreciated. Now, onward.
stan, I think it is the case for some women. not all, of course, but some. i know a woman who was going to vote for Hillary because she thought "it's time for a woman to be in the White House." Well, now that Palin's on the Republican ticket, guess who she's voting for? And guess why? Yep, because she thinks it's time for a woman to be in the White House. And she's not a stupid woman, there's just something about a woman - any woman - being in the White House that appeals to her above everything else.
Also, I think Palin's nomination gives some white women an excuse not to vote for a black guy. This way, they won't be seen as racists but as feminists of some sort or another.
Obama and his crew better get their heads out of their asses before it's too late, or McCain's gonna steal it right out from under his nose. You can see in that Yahoo article that they're a bit oblivious already. Obama's campaign manager says "Your poll is wrong" and then goes on to say no other polls back this shift up. They're fooling themselves: every poll is saying the same thing! They better wise up quickly.
Stan--You should contact Dennis Lim at Moving Image Source.
I'm feeling a lot better. The difficulty urinating only lasted half a day, and I'm sure it was entirely a momentary product of anxiety. FILM AND VIDEO said yes to the two interviews I pitched them, which takes a load off my mind.
-dennis-
this architecture stuff is interesting, but i dont want to walk into a cronenberg movie. i don't like it. there i said it. i hates it. i don't like the part that feels like tendrils are going to come out of it and probe me through my nostrils. i get that feeling here.
Jesse, "Call of Cthulhu" is a great one, of course... I've pretty much read almost all his major stories and very much enjoy "The Shadow Over Innsmouth", "At the Mountains of Madness", "The Haunter of the Dark", "The Outsider", and, of course, "Dreams in the Witch-House." I'll have to give your prose a check-out on my day off tomorrow, when I'm lucid.
Got a book by Michel Houellebecq tonight... "The Elementary Particles." I've been a little wary in regards to looking into his stuff, and I recall someone on here called him a reactionary recently. Then again, Lovecraft and Huysmans were reactionaries also, so it's not like something I'm not used to.
There was a time years ago when I was a big Palahniuk fan, but over the years I've rapidly lost interest in his work... even though I've purchased his 3 most recent books out of habit I still have yet to read them. Too much of his books blur, and there's something about his style that irritates me at times... "Hey, look, here's another 'weird obscure' topic/fact very few mainstream people have heard of, let's flog it to death for 200 pages or so!"
Thanks, Dennis. I'll send it to you when it's done... which will probably be around the time the comp itself will be done.
Oh, and Dennis, I was just thinking: I've got some time on my hands, why don't I put together a day or two for you? How does that sound? Of course, they'll be super-secret until I send them to you, then you give them the greenlight or the...::cries, doesn't even want to think about it::
jesse, i really liked the Mother/candy story. I knew where it was going the whole time, but you made want to watch it happen. good stuff.
...made ME want to watch it happen...
Dennis-
Hey! I'll be in Paris from Sept 21st til the 24th...let's get a coffee or drink or something. That's so funny about the voicemails. I was using a payphone--& it was raining & weird. I thought Oh shit I didn't get him in the morning--& I think you were in rehearsals or something...
I want to somehow use that strange Flemish area in my project at the Fresnoy-but my projects takes place in smalltown Minnesota, so I'm not sure how/what will translate. There's a sort of industrial absence there that reminds me of where I grew up in Minnesota, though...I'm starting to think about how shooting in France is going to influence a project that takes place in Minnesota & LA. Displacement can cause a lot of strange inspirations, can't it? I almost feel like I see a place clearer when I'm away from it.
StanCz-You're in Germany? Where? I'm going to have a 2yr residency, starting in a few weeks-near Lille, France. If I remember correctly, you're into film, right? "Fighting for the truth"--that's an interesting notion/long conversation. In general, in life & art, I think "honesty" is the best guide. Sometimes honesty gets confused with notions of reality, or "realism"--maybe rightfully so. I think honesty might just put something considered real in peril, maybe a "real" that's gone slack..
Dennis, hey , i've been absent for a while, its been a hell of a summer, teaching like crazy and dealing with visa stuff. sent that off a couple of weeks ago, another temporary solution. I hope this finds you well? when i'm not working like a dog i'm finding little bits of time to work on the 2nd book. i've discovered index cards! a way to start getting a sense of the organization. and i'm trying to work out how much narrative needs to be in the book, as in ,things happening external to the book's center, and whether or not there needs to be a boy. Alistairxoxo
hey dennis,
i don't know how weird it would be for me to put up the fake/real goru; i have a pretty hermetic thing going here. if jesus was involved, i'd be the picture of monkish virtue.
as complicated as my life can get, i know that i can always count on pro wrestling to deliver simple pleasure. there's just something i find terribly satisfying about guys in their underwear yelling and throwing each other around. i've heard that, unlike the rest of europe, the french don't really care about wrestling. true?
i have mixed feelings on the flesh architecture. in college, i got educated into liking all manner of abstract art and weird buildings. so aesthetically, it pleases me. but there's a simple/hillbilly part of me pulling the other way, telling me i'm being sold a bill of goods. probably why i prefer lowbrow even tho it's magchampion, juxtapoz, is in the toilet, content-wise.
i really type w/one finger, a crappy spinal chord thing. did about 1000 words today, another 2000 to go. it's funny -- in workshop, i could never make length. now i just blather on and on. speaking of.
Yes, yes... I perform all the time. My wife says all I need is an audience, which is true. I'm lonely all of the time, so I amuse myself with the shit of writing.
I am soft, then I am hard, my face is a sculpture made of lines, my body made out of curves. I am all broke down. I feel my balls, my heart, arteries running to my legs and shoulders. I talk about the body constantly, but as I was reminded recently, the body is one thing on the page, or by design, and quite another in reality... Marcos Cruz is only somewhat interesting to me as he can't help failing while trying to unify the sculptural necessities of space, bringing it in to the domain of the body, and making it a performance of subtraction, ostensibly denying an outside, or skin... The cellular globules of proposed occupants are still more insular, as machine complexities of "design"... Dasein over design, I'd venture to argue against the overall impact of architectural space, and the Transcendentalist opinion that a building creates experience. The outside in architecture is always in the body of the occupant, and swallowed skin, so to speak, don't you think?
Dennis,
I got to make a body of my body. A corpus from my corpus... How do I do that? How did I do that?
No, corpse.
I'm supposing a lived-in definition of architecture. As the meaning of the design as proposed... Of course the fabric is the big difference, as it is biological. Eduardo Kac comes to mind as a somewhat more complex example of a similar intention. But I'm still unimpressed: the design of life, the building of buildings, in fictional space, not to mention the fleshing out of psychological views, means more to me.
I've missed this place so much. And, I want to thank everyone from here who added (or requested?) me on facebook, and those who sent me messages, that was so nice and for what it's worth knowing you guys were thinking about me too, and just your kindness and fuck, thanks.
Jeff, hey! And wow, what finds. I just browsed those sites briefly since I have to be asleep five minutes ago, but yeah that's totally up your alley and I hadn't heard the word antinatalist either - and by god it is just what it sounds like. Anyway, I want to read those things you found, and find out about this Chip guy. Hope you are doing well.
Dennis, I tried to catch up since I've been away but I just can't right now. But I wanted to say I'm sorry you and Yury's vacation ended like it did. I hope everything got sorted out in the end, but I'm guessing money was still lost. Such bullshit, and so sorry you two had to go through that.
In better comments, I wrote a poem dedicated to you, Dennis, it's now on my blog (along with another recent poem) the only problem is I had to change the layout a little bit of the last two stanzas so blogger wouldn't wrap it weird. I wanted to try and get it published somewhere, and maybe I will, but I also wanted to put it up now. Anyway, I wrote it maybe two weeks ago and was really excited about it and knew right off that I wanted to dedicate it to you. Then I decided to type it up, work on it and turned it in for my poetry class last week. It's a good class, and my instructor is a Pavement fan. So far he seems to be a really nice guy, he's a poet as well, thank god. Anyway, he gave me some really nice comments on that poem, and my poetry in general, encouraging me to really pursue writing. I read the poem in front of the class today at the end, after three other people, something I haven't done in years, and supposedly it was well received (by the twenty some English majors). Also, strangely enough a few weeks back I brought in copies of your poem 'Signed D.C.' and John Ashbery's 'Thoughts of a Young Girl' for my class, read them both and then saw you and Ashbery had become facebook friends! What a cool coincidence. And, I hope that was okay that I shared that poem of yours with my class.
So, I hope you like the poem. Personally I think it's one of the better things I've written.
Also, in other good news I wrote my first short, short, barely even long enough to be called short fiction in Japanese, first in some months, for my new Japanese class, and my teacher a week or so later, er the other day, handed it back to me with corrections and this note saying that I wrote like Haruki Murakami. That totally blew my mind, I never thought I'd hear a native Japanese speaker, with a doctorate in linguistics etc, tell me that some little thing I wrote in my rudimentary Japanese was reminiscent of him. It turns out she loves his work. Anyway, she's a far better instructor than the one I had the first two semesters.
So that was some good news. I think I read that you finished your writing of the radio play? so awesome.
Well.. I'm gonna ma make it breif since on this thing its so hard to wrie... But thanks for the info, ill look into when I can get all the stuff together and when to send because I'd really want to do that. And as for Nadal.. I was disappointed but he was playing so poorly Nadal didn't deserve to win. I just hope I didn't offend with the language comment, it sounds so messy/sloppy to me and I think that's my beef with it.
Yep, all that refusing to begin anything that you don't personally believe is a great idea is ringing Notre Dame-sized bells, defo. I've got past that a bit – I'm beginning stuff, getting so far then running out of steam – so it's not so much a fear of attempting the thing, more a..I dunno – a confidence thing? A way of easing oneself over the inevitable humps?
Nor is it a fear of realising with you, I don't think – or am I wrong? Like, how far has your cannibal thing got? Is it still at the 'This is what I want to do' stage? If so, yeah – maybe you are imposing standards for yourself that aren't relevant any more. But maybe, at this stage in your writing, that's inevitable, eh? The more output one has behind oneself, in a way, the greater the holding force, if you know what I mean – or the yardstick, I suppose. Perhaps the challenge is overcoming this. And yeah, it is kind of a self-imposed pressure but it's also one that's hard to break away from.
What I know I am guilty of is mythologising the way the previous stuff got written: yeah, there were struggles and tears and tantrums and despair and tons of prep-work, and I got to remember this.
Oh, also? You WILL always be a writer. You're writing now: this, the articles, the short fiction, the poetry, the radio and stage plays. You'll not be bored. So it's just 'fiction' – the big project, as it were. The novel. Being precious, yeah – I think I'm a bit guilty of that. Right now I'm trying of think of it all as 'wee stories': get past all the pressure and the fears and, I suppose, like you say, just do what I feel like doing and fuck the consequences. But it's hard. It is confusing, yeah. You said a while back it's like tricking yourself into writing and I really believe that's true. Maybe this time it won't feel the way it did in the past. Maybe it's not meant to. Maybe none of it matters, it's all trivial but that doesn't mean it's not still worth doing.
Gawd, is any of that any use?
Rodger p: thanks for the Heraclitus info. It's official – I know nothing!
This day is really interesting. Did you happen across it while researching the cannibal stuff? Its weird but reading that i well just imagined holding a kinda sci-fi/horror cannibal novel by you and it being AMAZING. I hope you get over the fiction hump soon, im dying to see new stuff.
I just got 'Action Kylie' in the post. Its brilliant: there's such subtle rhythmic control in Killian's poetry and these points where it halts then jumps naturally back in exactly like a modern pop song but achieved in text. It's funny and warm and really clever. Any chance of resurrecting the old kevin killian day?
misanthrope: Well of course it's just some women, not all. But I was generally referring to some voters, independent of gender, because there are certainly also many men who wish to see a woman in the white house. But, wouldn't you agree that voting solely because of gender and being totally oblivious to anything these candidates stand for is the very definition of stupid? What are all these conferences, speeches, interviews, websites, discussions etc. for? To inform the voter about the politics of each candidate. Just ignoring all of that and voting for someone because it's, in their mind, "time for a woman in the white house" is not just vapid but very frightening. I would love to see a woman in the white house too, but a qualified one.
You said "there's just something about a woman - any woman - being in the White House that appeals to her above everything else." It's the "above everything else" that terrifies me. Voting exclusively on gender is sexist, which the female voters who switched from Clinton to Palin obviously don't realize. Palin stands for everything Clinton rallied against. A sane person doesn't just switch from liberal to fascist because of a preference in gender.
marc: Yeah I'm in Germany, Munich to be exact. And yes, I'm the film guy. Honesty is the most important virtue to uphold these days, because it's getting lost in the media, politics and many other areas. And yes, honesty is not always to be equated with reality. Hunter S. Thompson's gonzo journalism was all about telling the truth of a political matter, but also adding some of his wonderfully nutty fantasy to it. The effect was not to obscure truth but to enhance the reader's awareness of the evil of a politician like Nixon. Thompson once said "Some people will say that words like 'scum' and 'rotten' are wrong for Objective Journalism — which is true, but they miss the point. It was the built-in blind spots of the Objective rules and dogma that allowed Nixon to slither into the White House in the first place." The same in art, where someone like Werner Herzog for example is searching for an ecstatic truth, that doesn't necessarily replicate reality, but creates a more human, general truth that is closer to ourselves and reveals more about our spirits. This is a fascinating topic in general, worthy of a long and interesting discussion.
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